Chapter 21
HEATHER
Heather’s brain swirls as she sits in the car park of John Logie Hall with the car engine idling. Not with thoughts of Georgia and her return to second term, but with a continual focus on Scott. Somehow, he’s pervaded everything and, in particular, her New Year’s Resolutions:
- Open Water swimming sessions? Sure thing, we’ve got an opening next month. Shall I sign you up?
- Congratulations on your purchase of our easy-to-assemble portable easel, popular with wildlife artists.
- Keen to keep your body toned and your mind sharp, not just for yourself, but for that special someone – try this collagen blend.
He’s everywhere. In her head, in her Google searches, in her interactions with friends and family, in her decision-making. It’s not exactly ideal.
‘Come on, Mum. What are we waiting for?’ Georgia says, finally giving up all hope of Heather turning off the car engine. It’s yet another indication of how her mind’s working: Might Scott be there? Is he thinking of her?
My Goodness, what is she, a teenager? Her nineteen-year-old daughter is seeming more on top of life than she is right now.
‘Coming. Coming,’ she says, plastering the “here to help” smile on her face as she leaves the car, opens the door and heaves the first of many boxes from the car.
The moment they open the front door, it’s clear they're not the first to arrive. In fact, they're the last. Georgia squeals, hugs and has a ten-second catch up with her other flatmates, then heads straight for Brianna’s door. She raps on the wood several times in quick succession.
‘Open up. Open up. Open up,’ she yells as she pounds.
Moments later, the door opens. Not Brianna. Scott. Heather stands just behind her daughter. Is her quick inhalation of breath audible? She turns it into a throat clearing cough and holds her clenched fist in front of her mouth.
‘Hi, Georgia,’ he says, ‘Brianna’s in the loo.’
Georgia squeezes past him in the manner of someone frustrated that the parents are always in the way today, and plonks herself on the mattress to wait.
‘Hi, Heather.’ Scott’s looking at her. And yes. She feels it. The gradual heat in her cheeks. She’s forgotten how all-consuming this level of attraction can be. Her face must be scarlet by now.
‘Need help with that?’ Scott gestures to the box in Heather’s hands. She’s kind of forgotten she’s carrying it.
‘Ah. Yes... It’s stuff for the kitchen. So, I guess I’ll just…,’
She walks back down the corridor and tries to use her body weight to open the door against the vice-like grip of the self-closers.
‘Let me.’ Scott pushes against the door, his hand just above Heather’s shoulder, forcing his armpit into her face. He smells divine.
‘No, I’m …,’ Heather continues to push. The word “fine” comes out of her mouth just as the self-closing mechanism relents and they’re both propelled into the kitchen.
Heather stumbles. Scott falls over her feet. The box of groceries upturns. And Heather and Scott land in a tangled heap on the floor.
‘Oh shit. Sorry.’ She fumbles to get back upright, inadvertently kicking cans of soup across the kitchen floor.
The bag of brussels sprouts (what on earth made her imagine a student would cook, let alone eat sprouts?) splits, and thumb-sized pieces of vegetable scatter like shot blast across the tiled floor.
Scott’s face is pressed into her belly, and one of his hands is clutching at her leg. She isn’t hurt, she knows this, but there’s a strange long-forgotten fire shooting through her limbs right now. Scott’s muscles are taut. And they’re skimming hers. And it feels … sensational.
‘Are you staying in St Andrews tonight, so you’re ready for the slippery weasel in the morning?’ he asks, once the food stuff has been located and packed into Georgia’s cupboard. He’s clearly thinking of the visit to the second-year house the girls are hoping to sign up for.
‘I was planning on going home, then driving back up tomorrow,’ Heather says.
He looks at the floor and shakes his head. ‘Right. Yes. Makes sense.’
Heather looks at him. Is it her imagination or did his face just fall? Is he disappointed?
‘You okay with that?’ she asks. Somehow, don’t ask her how, her hand has slipped from where it was safely positioned on her hip and moved onto his arm.
‘Yeah. Sure. I thought we could go for a bit of a walk. You know. Once they’re unpacked and all.’
It’s Scott’s turn to blush. And Heather can’t help it; she finds it adorable.
‘A walk would be lovely,’ she says.
The girls are so overjoyed at being back together, they don’t register Heather and Scott preparing to leave.
‘We’ll see you tomorrow around ten to go to the house,’ Scott tells them.
‘Sure, sure, sure.’ Brianna manhandles them both out of the house, waves them goodbye at the threshold and closes the door behind them.
Heather turns to Scott, the offshore wind messing with her hair. She tucks the offending strands into a woollen hat.
‘No signs of anxiety this time, then,’ she says, gesturing towards the girls' rooms.
He grins. ‘None at all. The pier?’
They turn together and begin the walk on the path running along the East Sands Beach. A cagouled figure walking by the water’s edge picks up a piece of driftwood and throws it into the water. A brown Labrador gives chase, hurling itself through the waves.
‘Looks cold today,’ Heather says, noticing the open water swimmers further out and the distant triangles of two windsurfing boards.
The wind picks up, and spots of rain begin to fall as they walk along the coastal path, but Heather hardly notices.
She’s aware of the seagulls cawing overhead and the fact that Scott is barely talking.
‘Those swimmers ought to be getting out now,’ he observes, looking up at the sky, which is beginning to darken. The weak wintry sun lowers in the horizon and takes on a burnt orange hue.
Despite the threat of rain, they keep walking, past the lobster pots on the harbour wall, past the now-boarded-up café which sells ice creams and hot drinks to tourists during the summer, and they walk along St Andrews’ famous two-level stone pier.
The wind is buffeting by the time they step onto the uneven cobble stones, and Heather moves closer towards the lower wall.
The ancient stone pathway underfoot looks as though it might be slippery, and it’s a certain fall into the North Sea in the event of a misplaced step.
The regularly placed iron bollards along the rough stone edge do little to reduce her fear of falling.
They arrive at the end of the pier, and Scott points to the upper level, where a metal railing is the only thing to save people from falling out to sea. Elsewhere there is no protection at all on the upper level.
‘Fancy it?’ he asks, ‘to see the sunset?’
Heather’s heart skitters as she clambers up the slippery metal rungs, and Scott follows closely behind. He’s probably just being protective, Heather thinks. Even as a keen wild swimmer, he won’t want to take part in an emergency rescue mission at dusk on a January evening.
They stand together, hands on the railing, and looking out to sea.
‘The girls are so lucky to be here,’ says Scott.
‘I know, right?’
Scott’s hand slides along the railing until it encloses hers.
‘Heather,’ he says.
She turns to look at him, both fearful that he’s going to say something and terrified that he’s not.
His jaw clenches and he averts his eyes towards the horizon.
‘I don’t know what this is, but on Christmas Day.
That kiss. I didn’t want it to end.’ Now he looks at her, his blue eyes drilling into hers.
‘Was I imagining it? Did you feel it too?’ His gloved hand gently squeezes hers below.
In theory, she could obfuscate, or minimise, or lie. But she can’t. She just can’t. Because if ever something felt authentic, it is this connection between them.
‘I didn’t want it to end, either,’ she whispers.
Do his cheeks redden slightly at her reply? Before she can consider this, or anything else, his lips are on hers, and the sea and the setting sun and the gulls and the wind allow her to be whisked away to a place she has never, ever, been in her life.
How long do they kiss? Ten minutes? Twenty?
It’s enough time for the heavens to open and the rain to fall in torrents.
In all the time, the only sensation Heather is aware of is the tenderness of his touch and the exhilarating pulse through her entire body.
Now, when they finally pull apart, she’s freezing.
‘Look at you,’ he says, leaning back ever so slightly. The gap between them feels like an affront to Heather. She wants him closer, closer, closer. ‘You’re shivering.’
He pulls his thick winter jacket off and wraps it around her shaking shoulders. ‘Jeez, you’re frozen solid,’ he says. ‘Come on, my hotel’s on The Scores. Let’s get you there and dried off.’
A voice inside her head tells her she should object and remind them both that the plan is for her to return to Edinburgh tonight and drive back up to St Andrews in the morning.
But the voice is easily silenced. Neither of them would believe the sentiment if she were to utter it aloud.
Their connection is impossible to ignore.
They clamber down the iron rungs onto the lower level of the pier and lower their heads against the buffeting rain.
‘Shall we run?’ he says. They try it for a moment or two but, in all honesty, the faster movement of air against her body makes Heather unbearably cold.
They slow down and settle into a quick walk over the ancient flagstones which become slick with wet as they walk.
They rush up the hill, past the ruined spires of the cathedral and past the remnants of the castle and ancient university buildings before arriving on The Scores.
***